


Untitled

by wrabbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bubblewrap, Comment Fic, Community: shkinkmeme, Formerly Anonymous, Gen, OCD, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:17:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/8789.html?thread=17464917#t17464917">Prompt</a>: Mycroft and bubblewrap</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

1

"Honestly, Sherlock," Mycroft said when he realized what his younger brother had acquired in his nervous roamings about the flat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, falling effortlessly into a curled position in his chair. He examined the bubblewrap taken from John Watson's mail as if in deep distraction.

"It hardly bothers me like it used to."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock's boredom was limitless.

Mycroft glanced around the flat. Dr. Watson's influence could not be underestimated, in both the state of the rooms and Sherlock's general health and happiness, if not his brother's fundamental personality.

"Don't be childish."

 _pop_

Mycroft's fingers closed around the handle of his umbrella and Sherlock glanced at him, curious.

 _pop_. _pop pop pop_

Mycroft stood up in one smooth unhurried motion despite the torment. He didn't allow himself to grimace and the shivers from that unbearable sound to run up and down his spine until he was safe in the car.

2

His fingers twitched. His joints ached and itched. Mycroft dug his nails into his chair. It was simply a matter of material. Of production. Not every inch of bubblewrap was the same. Not every air pocket contained the same tension, had the same shape.

He lifted the plastic again and caressed one of them, pressing down with perfectly controlled tension with the pad of his thumb. It was so satisfying that he popped another, and then another, until he had filled a small deflated square with cleanly burst bubbles - each one releasing a little more air, allowing Mycroft to breathe easier in its own small way.

The dread grew also. Brittle tension that had been settling in the bones of his hands all morning grew only more acute, ready to shatter and break if he didn't release the tension with more small sharp pops.

He breathed in sharply as a hand covered his own at the moment when, he realized, the bubble he had been pressing was not about to pop, but to implode weakly. The hand gripped his own impolitely, inarguably tight, and he clutched at it.

"Enough, sir," his personal assistant said quietly.

"Yes." He allowed her to take the sheet of plastic from his shaking hand. There were more in his desk. Pristine, untouched sheets.

She slid the files held in her free hand onto his desk.

"Thank you."

She squeezed his hand once before sliding away.

3

 _pop_

Mycroft ran his fingers over the wrapping material, searching for outliers.

 _pop_

He continued his search. Not every day required Mycroft's full attention - and not every task his unique circumspection. But despite the fact that Mycroft's phone lay in a conspicuous position on his desk, his usual distraction sat across from it.

Mycroft's phone twittered quietly. He glanced at it, and then at his caller.

"Are you even listening to me?" Sherlock said, pulling his own phone out of his pocket and ending the call.

"No." Mycroft smiled.

 _pop_


End file.
